


Let Me Fix You, Let Me Feel Your Heartbeat

by MoonQueen17640



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Introspection, M/M, musings, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonQueen17640/pseuds/MoonQueen17640
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From across the field at his vantage point in the dugout, Buster can feel Tim’s heartbeat. The thudthudthud echoes in his mind just as strongly as it had the night before when he had splayed his fingers over Tim’s chest and counted the beats while Tim rambled on about nothing in particular. As he had looked into Tim’s eyes and watched the light make them fluctuate from hazel to golden brown, Buster had never felt so at peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Fix You, Let Me Feel Your Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Okay. First fic in this fandom. First fic with these two beautiful idiots. Please let me know your thoughts! Comments and kudos make the world go round!
> 
> This is set during the August 31, 2014 game against the Brewers (though it includes flashbacks to earlier times) when Tim came in and pitched in relief and struggled (even though his motion looked so much better than it has for a while) and Buster was watching the game from the dugout and looked extremely pained with Tim's struggles.

From across the field at his vantage point in the dugout, Buster can feel Tim’s heartbeat. The _thudthudthud_ echoes in his mind just as strongly as it had the night before when he had splayed his fingers over Tim’s chest and counted the beats while Tim rambled on about nothing in particular. As he had looked into Tim’s eyes and watched the light make them fluctuate from hazel to golden brown, Buster had never felt so at peace.

Now, watching Tim make a conscious effort to control his breathing and hearing the beats pounding in his mind, Buster almost reaches out to try to calm Tim, even though he knows that his hands would fall short.

The mound had in recent months become Tim’s own personal hell, and Buster never felt more helpless or more far away then when he was watching Tim battle his demons from over 60 feet away. When everyone had fixated on the Sanchez situation as the cure-all, after throwing out options at a speed that had made Tim’s head spin, Buster hadn’t realized how much he would miss the electric battery connection that he hadn’t known he needed so badly.

* * *

“It’ll be fine,” Tim had said that night, lying on top of Buster and tracing patterns on his sweat-stained skin, “I mean, fuck, maybe changing things up will be a good thing. You never know. “ Buster had pressed a kiss into Tim’s neck where his hair began and wrapped his arms even tighter around Tim’s scrawny waist, trying to anchor himself in a desperate attempt to remind himself that Sanchy would never get this, Tim warm and sated and content, pressed against his chest.

Tim’s optimism was contagious, and Buster really had believed that his wild control and inconsistent delivery could be fixed, but watching Tim fall apart on the mound start after start had made him, and everyone else realize that something else needed to be done.

Buster fiercely believed that no one had made more personal sacrifices in the best interest of the team than Tim had. No one else would be able to go to the bullpen and do what he had done. No one else could suck up his pride the way Tim had. It made Buster wince every time the press harped on how humble he was while they ragged on Tim for his struggles. They didn’t see the sacrifices that Buster saw, they didn’t see how much it hurt Tim to not be able to meet his own expectations, let alone the 40,000 people he always felt he answered to and had a responsibility to every night.

It was at night that Tim was finally able to let go, collapsing soft and pliant into Buster’s arms and letting Buster carry him to their bed. (The team had stopped questioning them rooming together after watching Buster seek Tim out after every rocky start and watching the way Buster was able to get Tim’s head back in the right place. The fleeting touches didn’t go unnoticed, but no one said anything. They understood that anything that helped with making it through 162 games a year was a good thing, and that Buster was the only one who could push Tim’s hood back and brush his hair out of his eyes and reassure him that things _would_ get better).

It had started when Buster was a rookie, quietly watching the guys around him and trying to stay relatively unnoticed. He had watched Tim self-destruct and somehow understood that pressure and that desire to prove himself and had sought Tim out, raising his voice in his desperate attempt to tell Tim he understood. It was only after Tim gave him a small smile that he realized that the whole clubhouse was quiet, everyone wide-eyed in shock at the rookie who had just chewed out the ace. A slow clap had begun, spreading its way around the team as Buster blushed and tried to hide his face, looking back at Tim who had joined in on the clap with a furtive wink and a private smile.

From then on it had been _them_ , codependent and dysfunctional, but perfect nonetheless. It still amused Buster to look at the two of them with an outsider’s eyes. Tim, the longhaired dope smoking hippie from the Northwest with the over-competitive father and him the Georgia hick whose idea of fun was watching game footage and reading scouting reports. Sometimes Buster wished he had chosen the easy route, married his high school sweetheart and had beautiful blue-eyed children, but every time Tim looked at him and smiled that real smile that made the corners of his mouth crinkle, he knew it was worth it. Tim was worth it.

Every day Buster watched Tim pitch, watched that nonsensical motion that somehow worked and tried to see what was wrong. Tim would look over at him with that lost wide-eyed look and Buster would shrug helplessly, rambling on about release point and balance while Tim’s shoulders slumped even further and Buster felt more and more guilty for not knowing how to fix it.

“It’s not up to you to fix me, you know,” Tim had murmured one night, Buster still struggling to catch his breath as he stroked his fingers through Tim’s silky hair.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t try,” Buster had told him ruefully, reaching back to look into his eyes.

“Buster big-shot MVPosey,” Tim had grumbled, poking him lightly in the ribs, “always trying to make everything perfect. If I didn’t love you, I think I’d hate you.” Buster chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to Tim’s forehead, “I’ll be glad you love me then,” he whispered into his ear, smiling softly when he saw Tim’s eyes light up in a way that he hadn’t seen since the beginning of the slump. _If I can’t fix you, I’ll be here to make sure you don’t break_ , Buster had promised silently, stroking Tim’s skin with his callused hands and feeling how fragile his body seemed underneath the layers he always cocooned himself in at the ballpark.

He was forever grateful that Tim let all of his guards down when they were together. There was no “Big Time Timmy Jim,” no airs and no ego, just _Tim_ , who melted so easily into Buster’s embraces and whose breathy moans and gasping _“Buster… fuck babe, come on… please…”_ broke all of Buster’s resolve and had him thrusting up and releasing into Tim’s willing vice-like heat before collapsing onto his body in sated and comfortable silence.

* * *

If Buster listens hard enough he can almost hear Tim’s ragged breathing from the mound, inoutinoutinoutin, a mantra that he knows better than his own name. It never ceases to amaze him that even with knowing Tim inside and out, he still learns something new about him every day, like how his fingers twitch of their own accord when he’s nervous, that he’s always wanted to take Buster to meet his father and rub his happiness in his face, and that Buster’s name on his lips is the only prayer he believes in. Even though Tim is the most complex and flawed and beautiful person Buster knows, some days it isn’t enough. Some days the game is a trust fall and the floor falls out from underneath them and nothing is certain. But on those days, Buster just holds Tim tighter to him, because if anyone can figure it out, it’s _them. Together._


End file.
